


Washing Away

by loyalnerdwp



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 15:08:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyalnerdwp/pseuds/loyalnerdwp





	Washing Away

Every now and then a case will go violent. Something happens that takes them by surprise and throws the entire situation off track. Things end badly, either for them or their suspect. There’s normally a lot of blood at those times. Sherlock’s blood, his own blood, or the suspect’s blood. Once, it was Lestrade’s blood. On a few occasions, it’s someone innocent. A family member of the accused and pursued, or a bystander that gets a bit more than unlucky. He is turned to immediately - he is the doctor, after all, the army doctor who’s done this more than once. More than ten times, more than enough. More than he’s ever wanted to.  
  
It can be passed off, at first. His adrenaline is still pumping, heart still racing, as he presses his hand hard against Sherlock’s temple or a victim’s arm. His own abdomen, or Lestrade’s leg.  
  
The blood gets on him - on his clothes, on his gloves, on his shoes. Sometimes, during the summer months, usually, it ends up on his hands and then his face. He doesn’t notice where, but he knows it’s there and he needs to get rid of it.  
  
When the situation is handled and the victim is in an ambulance or Sherlock is being guided home, the air calms and quells the beating of his heart. He doesn’t bother to look at his clothes anymore. He doesn’t want to see the blotch of dark maroon - above his knee, in this instance - on his trousers, or his shirtsleeve. But he can feel where it’s gritting against his skin, and this time it’s under his fingernails.  
  
He can hardly sit still in the cab on their way home. This one pushed too far, and he doesn’t understand why. He knows Sherlock must know, but Sherlock isn’t speaking. The detective is watching from his peripherals as John’s left hand clenches and relaxes against his thigh repeatedly, watching the creases around his eyes shift as he tries not to grimace at gruesome mental imagery that refuses to stop flashing behind his eyelids when he blinks.  
  
When the cab pulls up to Baker Street he mutters “you get this one,” and gets out quickly, striding to the door and letting himself in. It was only halfway closed in an attempt to leave as fast as possible earlier in the day and he berates himself for not remembering that Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t be there to shut it after them.  
  
As he steps in, he begins pulling at the sleeve of his cardigan, ignoring the damp spot that he knows is turning his fingertips red. He gets it over his hand and pulls the sweater off entirely, already undoing the buttons of his rumpled shirt as he pushes through the door to the flat. He hears Sherlock’s footsteps behind him when he drops his shirt to the floor by his armchair as he passes it to go to the bathroom.  
  
The door shuts louder than necessary and within seconds the guttural churn of the old plumbing has started in the walls, shower spray hitting hard against the tile of the shower. Sherlock estimates it will be forty-five seconds before John is fully undressed and standing in the harsh spatters of undoubtably steaming water. He strips of his coat and hangs it, toes off his shoes, picks up John’s shirt and cardigan and brings them to their room, then undoes his suit jacket and leaves it as well. After a moment, he shucks his shirt and socks, too.  
  
John doesn’t hear the door open and shut - partially due to the shower, but also because Sherlock is becoming very practised in this. The doctor has been scrubbing the soap under his fingernails fervently to remove the blood clinging there. Scalding water has already drenched his hair, leaving it in a fringe that just touches the top of his eyebrows. The smudge of red on his cheek is gone now. The cabbie had given him funny looks. That’s when he realised it was there. He wouldn’t have noticed if it had been somewhere less obvious.

—

No one at the scene told him anymore; it was a silent request that everyone had heard out rather quickly. When first told “Ah, John you’ve got a bit of blood on your shirt there,” by Lestrade, his throat had gone tight and he nodded his acknowledgement before turning away. He wouldn’t speak much the rest of the following up and his posture was stiff. When they got home he went to the shower without a word and remained there for fifteen minutes, as opposed to his usual five.  
  
“What was that about?” Sherlock had asked when he emerged. He was bent over a row of petri dishes that seemed to have no substances in them - John knew better, of course, but it seemed that way.  
  
“Sorry?” the doctor had questioned, towelling off his hair as he moved toward the sofa.  
  
“You’ve hardly spoken all evening; normally when that happens it means I’ve done something ethically wrong, but if I had you wouldn’t be speaking to me for at least another half hour. You’ve also just taken a shower that was ten minutes longer than your average and you’re in a sour mood. So? What’s the matter; or am I not  _supposed_  to ask that?” There was a pause.  
  
“Don’t be a prat, Sherlock,” was the response he heard before there were footsteps on the stairs going up. The detective huffed and rolled his eyes at the doctor’s indignance. Something was off, clearly. He stepped into the bathroom to have a look. Unless John had decided to have a wank, there wasn’t much explanation as to why his shower had been extended - and he would have been much more…  _relaxed_  if he had. So, not that.  
  
He peeked in the shower but there were no clues - it was a long shot, after all - so he moved on to the pile of clothes behind the door. He sifted through.  
  
There was nothing. He scoffed quietly with annoyance and tossed the doctor’s shirt down. Nothing. Which meant he was going to have to ask, unless he wanted a repeat of this on the next case. He hated asking. It gave John a smug sense of knowing that he wasn’t a complete read (for the most part, untrue) and allowed him to shove it in Sherlock’s face.  
  
The detective rubbed his cheek where there was an itch and strode from the washroom with a deep breath, heading off and up the stairs.  
  
“John!” he demanded from outside the door.  
  
There was a heavy sigh from inside and the slow shuffle of John’s footsteps.  
  
“What do you want?” he questioned when he opened the door.  
  
“If you do not explain to me what I’ve done wrong, I cannot make an attempt to fix it.” Sherlock crossed his arms and quirked a brow.  
  
“You haven’t done anything,” John insisted. “Other than try to pry into my mind, which is never really appreciated.”  
  
“What, then, is the cause of your behaviour and should I bother to attempt to console you?” The detective reached up and rubbed at his face again, but furrowed his brow when he felt something. Like a thin layer of dried paint. He pulled his fingers back and frowned at the gritty red, then turned his attention back to John. His jaw was set now, left fist clenched and his head was turned away.  
  
“… It’s the blood,” Sherlock stated in realisation.  
  
“Just… Leave me alone,” John muttered, moving to shut the door. Sherlock intercepted and the doctor turned and walked back into his room.  
  
“It doesn’t make you nauseous, you were an army doctor. You’ve seen plenty of blood, you wouldn’t be able to continue the practise,” he continued, striding in after him. “Why, then?”  
  
“Sherlock, just leave it,” John said, louder. “Listen, it’s… Nothing.”  
  
“And you’ve seen blood on a crime scene before. What’s so different about this time?” Sherlock tiled his head questioningly. After a moment, he breathed out a little “oh”. “It wasn’t on the crime scene, though,” he concluded.  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
“It was Freemont’s blood,” the detective said with finality. “Because Lestrade nicked him in the side.”  
  
“Sherlock, stop,” John warned, staring him down.  
  
“Why does it bother you so much?”

John bit his lip and looked down at his hands, folded neatly in his lap.  _Indicator of distress_ , Sherlock’s mind warned him.  _Don’t push or he’ll snap. It will be explosive._

“Just because I was in the military doesn’t mean the blood doesn’t affect me.” Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but John snapped his head up and glared. The detective slowly closed his mouth and waved a hand for him to continue.

“In Afghanistan, especially,” John resumed, “there was a lot of blood. It doesn’t make me queasy or dizzy. The… first time someone…” He shook his head and sighed. “First time someone died while I was working on them, I got blood everywhere. All over my uniform, my hands, my face.”

“So it’s b-“

“Sherlock,” John interrupted. “Listen, or get out. I’m not having you dig into my psyche.”

“Very well,” the detective sighed. “Continue.”

John frowned at him and took a deep breath through his nose. “It was everywhere. For awhile. A long while. And it’s more than a bit difficult to cope with the blood of one of your mates all over you. Someone you were too late to save.” He shook his head at Sherlock’s puzzled expression. “You might not understand, but it’s h-“

“I understand,” Sherlock interrupted, holding his chin up adamantly. 

There was a strange look to him that John couldn’t decipher, but he nodded slowly and continued. “Right. I just don’t like having the blood on me, ‘s all. Was on my shirt. ‘S on your face.”

Sherlock let his chin lower to look over John curiously before nodding. “I understand,” he repeated slowly. There was something almost akin to compassion in his tone but it dropped almost a second later. “Don’t expect them all to be like that - it doesn’t normally come to a point that we have to pull arms. I’ll be tending to my experiment.”

The detective eyed John once more before turning on his heel and striding out. The doctor stared after him for a moment before huffing out a laugh and thinking his flatmate was more caring than he let on.

—

The shower curtain ruffles and John turns his head by instinct, hand drifting to the bare small of his back. 

“Relax,” comes a low baritone murmur as Sherlock steps in, hand moving to rest on the back of John’s shoulder.

“Sherlock,” John protests quietly. “Not now.”

“I know.” The detective shuts the curtain behind him and wraps his long arms around John’s middle, hugging close to his back and nosing against his hair. “This one was too much for you,” he states.

John gratefully leans back into him and and curls his arms around Sherlock’s. “He killed himself, Sherlock.”

“I saw.”

“In my hold.”

“Wasn’t your fault.”

John’s grip tightens momentarily before he exhales slowly and loosens it. “I know it wasn’t my fault,” he says through grit teeth. He unclenches his jaw and huffs. “I know. Just. In my hold, Sherlock. He managed to get my gun.”

Sherlock leans down and nuzzles into the back of the doctor’s neck, hugs him more snugly. “No one blames you. He was a coward running from a sentence that would have likely brought him to the same fate. That he was lucky enough to get your gun was a near miracle. The menace deserved to die.”

“Sherlock, that’s not helping.”

“What should I say?” 

There’s a long pause in which there’s no speaking to cover the sound of the creaking plumbing or the battering shower spray against the tiles and their bodies and it’s almost serene, but not quite. Nothing with Sherlock is ever serene. John decides he likes it that way.

“You’re doing well enough without saying anything.”

“Should I say I'm sorry, anyhow?” Sherlock murmurs, pressing his lips to the nape of the doctor’s neck.

“You don’t have to.”

“Mmh, good.”

“Git.” 

“I love you, too.”


End file.
